


Love Thyself

by veroreos



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood Gulch Chronicles, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Team as Family, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veroreos/pseuds/veroreos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Simmons grew up all his life being told he needed to marry a nice girl, settle down, have kids, and die. It all seemed so simple.</p><p>Falling in love with a man was not supposed to happen. </p><p>And it sure as hell wasn't supposed to be with Dexter Grif.</p><p>--- Fic is officially discontinued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure how long this fic's going to be, and this is just sort of the set-up. It's going to be a long, flowing project, so I hope you guys enjoy!

Growing up, his father had walked out on them, and his mother had stressed family values ever since.

“You need to get married and have kids someday.”

Of course, it was his mom. He wasn't going to question that. Get a job, meet a girl, stop being awkward for 30 seconds, get married, have kids. Simple, easy, straightforward.

Maybe if he did well in life his dad would come and find him and tell him he's proud, or maybe his mom would at least stop grabbing him by the ear and telling him that he should be working harder every other hour.

All he had to do was get married, reproduce, and die. That's it. That was the plan, the only plan. There was no way he could fuck that up.

Then war broke out and suddenly Private First Class Richard “Dick” Simmons was being sent out into space.

His mom shook her head when he told her the news and kept shaking her head until he left.

 

Private First Class Dexter Grif never knew his dad to begin with, but that never bothered him.

Hell, he didn't have much of a mom either on account of her running off every few days to either sleep around with someone new or to take some kind of dumb job that she'd managed to snag to pay for the rent that month.

That didn't bother him either.

Actually, there wasn't a lot that bothered him. Maybe there was a time when he and his sister Kaikaina had been stressed out about their living arrangements, but eventually they learned not to care about that. Wasn't much to be done about it.

All they had to do was graduate, move out, get marginally successful jobs so they could eat, and then sleep the rest of their lives away (either alone or with other people). The Grif family wasn't one for planning so sleeping and eating was really all they had in mind.

War was the least of their worries until Dexter Grif was suddenly enlisted and shipped out into space.

His mom wasn't there when he left, but she left him a note, and his sister waved him off through tears.

 

The first time they met was in that godforsaken canyon.

Basic training had taken a few months, and though it'd been hell, they were both frustrated to find out they'd be sitting in a canyon guarding a base rather than actually out fighting. While it was nice to be somewhere safe, what was the point?

Both of them had arrived to an empty base. Simmons arrived second, walking into the base and greeted by orange armor.

“Oh, uh, hey.” A small wave. A slight Hawaiian accent.

“Uh...hey?” A glance around. Hands fixed to his gun, arms pulled in tight, uncertain. “Where's the Sargent?”

“Don't know,” Private Dexter Grif says, removing his helmet for a breath of fresh air. “I just got here. God, this canyon's hot as balls. I can already tell the next two years are gonna suck.”

Simmons doesn't respond, doesn't really say anything as he watches the heavyset man speak. He's a bit chubby and Simmons is honestly surprised he made it through basic without dropping dead, sweat already dripping from his dark hair down the back of his tanned neck from just standing there in the heat.

He swears and curses and even burps once while making a lewd joke, but Simmons doesn't say anything the whole time. He just stands there and watches.

He's pretty sure he's in love.

And it scares the shit out of him.


	2. I Don't Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons and Grif get used to each other pretty quickly.

It doesn't take long for Simmons to decide that almost everything about Grif is absolutely fucking disgusting.

Simmons never lived with anyone besides his mother before joining the military, so he knew he'd have to get used to rooming with other people. Going through basic had been a crash course for him, and he was really, really hoping that sharing quarters with a small squad would be better than the large numbers of people he'd had to learn to share showers with.

Yet somehow, Private First Class Dexter Grif has managed to produce more garbage and filth in in two weeks than Simmons has managed to produce in his entire life.

“Grif, you fat fuck!”

The tanned man doesn't even look up as Simmons violently throws the door open, hopping in on one foot. “God damn, Simmons. We've been here only a few weeks and you're already a broken record. What is it this time? I already told you that I had first dibs on the oreos, so if you're mad about that it's your fault.” Grif is sprawled out in his bunk with a magazine and Simmons is pretty sure that Grif is supposed to be checking the ammo stock instead of monkeying about before bed, but something else is more important right now.

“At least fucking eat them! I just stepped on one with my bare foot!”

This time Grif glances to Simmons. The freckled ginger is propped against the doorway on one foot, holding his other foot up with his arm hooked under his leg to demonstrate his point. A wide grin spreads across Grif's face and Simmons frowns in response. “Oh! I knew I lost one!” Simmons doesn't have time to ask before Grif suddenly pretends to be angry, dramatically putting his hands on his hips and turning his full attention to the lanky man. “You just stepped on a perfectly good oreo you son of a bitch! I could have eaten that!”

Simmons' face is now the embodiment of sheer disgust and Grif really wishes it wasn't so funny because now he's laughing and Simmons is even more pissed. “You would have eaten a cookie off the floor?! Jesus, you're a pig!”

“Sticks and stones, Simmons,” is all Grif says in response before turning back to his magazine. Simmons mutters profanity and insults as he hops his way over to his own bed. “You know, you swear more than I would expect.”

“More than you would expect? Based on what?” Neither of them are looking at each other as Simmons reaches for the paper towels he keeps by his bed, tearing off a sheet and brushing off the crumbs and sticky filling from his foot.

Grif rests his magazine on his stomach, staring up at the concrete ceiling. “Well, you've got a massive stick up your ass--”

“I do not!”

“--and you've lived with your mother all your life, so I figured you'd be really quiet and shy. It didn't take you very long to start bitching me out all the time.” There's a tone of annoyance, but Grif's grinning a bit and Simmons is pretty sure he's just as amused.

Once the crushed snack is wiped off his foot, Simmons crumples up the paper towel and tries to toss it into the garbage by the door but ends up bouncing it off the rim. Grif boos him as he gets up to throw it away and Simmons rolls his eyes. “Well...I dunno. I'd consider myself pretty shy. Like, I didn't make any friends at basic, but...”

Brown eyes follow him curiously as the lanky figure makes its way back to its bed, sitting down and running a hand through buzzed red hair before laying down. “But?”

“You don't feel like someone I have to be shy with, I guess.” They're both quiet for a moment before Simmons elaborates. “I mean—usually I'm afraid of what people will say, or if they'll think I'm annoying or if they'll like me, but—“

“Is this going to be some kind of sap story about how you feel like you can trust me and be my friend? Because I think I'll throw up, so don't get all emotional on me.”

“Oh fuck off,” Simmons says, crossing his arms over his small chest. “It's not that I feel like you'll accept me. It's just that I don't really care if you do or not. I don't fucking care what you think. You're a disgusting pig and I'm going to be stuck with your fat ass for the next two years and you're crude and stupid and really fucking lazy and you know what? I don't really give a shit if you think I'm annoying because you're stuck here, and I'm stuck here, and there's jack shit we can do about it.”

There's a long silence before Grif snorts. He rolls onto his side to face the wall, the mattress squeaking underneath his shifting weight. Simmons mirrors his movements, curling up in the thin blankets provided to him and trying to ignore how they scratch against his skin.

“I don't think I expected you to be that pessimistic either, Simmons.”

“I don't think _I_ expected me to be this pessimistic.”

“Well, I'm a lazy pig, and you're a whiny bitch, so I guess the Blues have really got their work cut out for them, huh?”

“All they do is stand around and talk, but all we do is lay around and talk. I think they might actually have an advantage.”

Grif laughs but doesn't say anything more, and soon enough the Hawaiian man is snoring his ass off. Simmons glances over his shoulder to peek at the sleeping figure before burying his head underneath the scratchy blankets.

Regardless of how muddled his feelings are about the other man, they're stuck together, and the least Simmons can do is pretend that he doesn't care.


	3. Poor Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarge is out and Grif suggests something stupid. Really, really stupid.
> 
> It's easy to hold your head high and ignore your problems.

There's wasn't a lot to do in the canyon.

Sometimes Grif and Simmons would trek up up the cliff and spy on the Blues. Sometimes the Blues would trek up the cliff and spy on Grif and Simmons. Sometimes they would run drills (or rather, Simmons would run drills and Grif would sort of stroll behind him until he got bored of that and settled for sitting on the roof and laughing at him), other times they would have a day off when Sarge went to Command and they'd just lay around the base bitching at each other.

The days where they're alone are Simmons' favorite days.

“It's almost Christmas, you know,” Simmons says casually, sitting in his bunk and polishing his gun. He still has his armor on save for his helmet resting in his lap. Even with temperature regulation, it's still hot as hell, and now that his hair his growing out the thick red curls are plastered to his temples with sweat.

Grif abandoned his armor in favor of his civvies a few hours ago and is stretched out on his bunk, face down on his pillow. Simmons can tell he hasn't shaved in awhile because the stubble is showing across his round face, and his now shaggy hair is just as wet and gross as his own. The heavy head turns to its side to give Simmons a look of disbelief, and Simmons has to stop himself from laughing because Grif's hair is halfway stuck to his cheek and halfway stuck to the pillow. “You're shitting me, aren't you? It's hot as balls! It's the middle of summer!”

“It's been the middle of summer for the past 8 months!” Simmons sets his gun down, tapping the visor of his helmet. “Let me guess: you never set your calendar.”

“Calendar? There's a calendar?”

The surprise in his voice is genuine and Simmons is almost concerned how Grif can be _so fucking stupid_ , but that's a thought he's become well accustomed to. He pushes his helmet aside as he rolls his eyes and stands up. “Give me your helmet.”

Grif audibly groans as he readjusts so he's sitting, running a hand through messy hair and scratching at the scruff on his cheek before reaching down for the discarded helmet laying on the ground by his feet. He passes it to Simmons and their hands brush for a moment. Simmons quickly puts the helmet on and hopes Grif doesn't notice that his cheeks are burning, but Grif keeps his same bored, disinterested expression.

It takes about 10 seconds for Simmons to set up the calendar and clock, and another 30 seconds to fix the temperature regulation. “Jesus fuck, don't you know how to work your armor?”

“Not really,” Grif manages to say while yawning in a ridiculously exaggerated manner. “After I figured out how to turn the visor off I started sleeping through all the training and meetings that I could.”

Simmons takes off the helmet and combs a hand across his scalp quickly before Grif can make fun of his recurring helmet hair. “I can't tell if you're the biggest idiot in the world or a goddamn genius.” The large man flashes him a grin and Simmons can feel his heart fluttering as he tosses the helmet back to him. “That should fix all of your time settings, and your temperature regulation wasn't set properly--”

“Holy shit, there's temperature regulation too?”

“I take it all back. You're just an idiot.”

Grif snorts and sets his helmet on the floor again, letting it roll away a few inches before laying back down. “So, Christmas, huh? Guess we're not going home for the holidays.”

Simmons flops back onto his bunk, the gun bouncing a bit and the helmet rolling against the pillow. “I guess not.”

“You don't sound particularly heartbroken about it.” They don't face each other, but Simmons can feel Grif's eyes on him. “What, don't miss your mom?”

The lanky man pulls his legs and arms together, shrinking in on himself. Grif immediately regrets pressing the issue, but Simmons plays it off. “Well, sure I do, but it'd be just me and her. I don't really have a big family so...I dunno. It's not too big of a deal I guess.”

They're quiet for awhile. He wasn't one for being emotionally sensitive or to coddle other people, but Grif can tell that it's a weird topic for Simmons, so he tries to figure out how to redirect it from there. He doesn't want to talk about his own family because that would be weird too, and he doesn't want to just abruptly change the subject.

But then they both just sit there quietly and the awkward silence is smothering. Eventually Grif sits up.

“Hey, you wanna go take pot shots at the Blues?”

“Are you crazy?!” He grins reflexively when the scrawny ginger springs to his feet. “We have no idea what they're doing or what they're up to, Sarge isn't here—what if something happens? We can't just go around recklessly throwing bullets around just because your fat ass is bored!”

By the time Simmons is done bitching Grif's already gathered up his armor and is starting to suit up. “What if we injure or kill one of them, or gather some 'intelligence'? Sarge would be _pretty_ _proud_ , wouldn't he?” The crooked smile only grows when Simmons visibly hesitates. “Come on, we haven't seen any action in weeks! The Blues are probably lounging on their asses just like we are. We'll take a couple of shots at their base, give them a nice scare, then skeddadle.”

“Well...” Simmons rubs at his neck, but Grif knows that he's already on board by the way he's looking to his helmet. “Sarge would be pretty impressed, wouldn't he?”

“That's the spirit!” Grif gives Simmons a pat on the back before putting his own helmet on. He goes to retrieve his gun as Simmons secures the maroon helmet to his head. “Hey Simmons, got some clips you could spare?”

“You idiot, you're supposed to be in charge of ammo!”

“Oh. Right.”

Simmons shakes his head as he shoves a couple of clips into Grif's hands. “Are you sure about this? We might have to run. I'm not dragging your corpse back to base.”

“Don't worry, I wouldn't drag you back either.”

Simmons shakes his head again and gives Grif a gentle punch on the shoulder before they head out.

  
  


  
  


The first few shots hit the archway leading into the base.

“Holy fucking shit! Are we under attack?”

“Well, you and I are the only ones here, and neither of us shot, so what the fuck do you think?!”

The next shots make it into the hallway of the base, and the two voices inside become incoherent screaming, part fear, part anger.

Simmons swaps clips while Grif lets loose a few more rounds. “Hey, Grif, weren't there three Blues?”

“I thought so,” Grif says once he's done firing, squatting behind the rock they've picked for cover. “I haven't seen the one in the regulation blue in awhile though. Maybe they got stationed somewhere else? I'm pretty sure we haven't managed to kill any of them.”

Bullets ricochet off the other side of the rock. Simmons takes a peek over the edge and a bullet whizzes right by his head. He immediately ducks back down, a bullet passing by the opposite side of where his head was. “Fuck! One of them has a sniper rifle!”

They can make out the sound of one of the Blues swearing, cursing the sights on his gun. The other one is mumbling something rude and the first one tells him to shut up. Grif blind fires and both of the Blues swear and retreat back into the base.

“Which one has the sniper rifle?”

“The cobalt one.”

“...What?”

“Lightish blue? The other one is teal.”

The shuffle of armored footsteps is quiet, but Simmons knows they're coming out of cover. He springs back up and opens fire. One of the other soldiers opens fire too—the teal one. Most of their shots miss and Simmons realizes that all of them are awful shots.

Then a bullet goes straight into his shoulder and he falls to his knees.

“Shit—fuck, Simmons!” Grif eases Simmons into a sitting position. The sound of someone cheering in the background is stopped when Grif fires his gun blindly at the base and the cheering is replaced by swearing and more retreating. “Simmons, are you alright?”

“You're a fucking idiot and this was a fucking awful plan,” Simmons mutters through clenched teeth, pressing a hand to the wound. “It's just my shoulder. I'll be fine, but _fuck_ you're stupid.”

“Yeah yeah, save your bitching for later. Come on, I'll give you some cover and we'll make a run for it.” Grif takes the clip from Simmons' gun and replaces his own, helping Simmons to a crouching position.

Simmons gets ready to go, and as soon as Grif stands and opens fire Simmons starts sprinting. He's vaguely aware of Grif following behind him, heavy breathing and continuous fire until the bullets suddenly stop and Grif is saying something about running out of ammo.

By the time Simmons is aware of what he's doing he's in Red Base again and he's crumpling onto the floor, tearing off his helmet and trying to catch his breath. Grif follows back in a minute later, flopping onto his stomach on the hard concrete and letting out a deep, deep sigh.

“We...really need...a car.”

It takes a moment to realize what Grif's whining about through labored breaths, but as soon as Simmons realizes he takes his helmet and chucks it at the other man. “Holy fucking shit, how did you make it out of basic if you can't even run a couple hundred meters without having a heart attack?”

“Fuck...you.”

It's quiet for a long time. The Blues don't seem to be following them. Maybe they thought it was a trap? If the Blues attacked now they're probably be done for, but thankfully they seemed to be acting cautiously. Unlike some people—

“Holy shit,” Simmons mutters, glancing down to his armor and finally seeing the large trail of red dripping from his shoulder. The bullet managed to avoid his actual armor and pierce through his under armor, lodging itself into his muscle. “I'm gonna have to remove this.”

“Dude, don't you think we should get a medic?” The Hawaiian man is now propped up on his elbows, carefully watching the other. “I don't think either of us are really qualified for this.”

“Oh please, all I need is some alcohol and a pair of tweezers.” It's spoken with a grin and confidence and Grif is actually kind of impressed.

Simmons pushes himself to his feet and starts walking to the bathroom. “Do you want some help?” Grif calls out, quickly standing up and following after him. “There's no way you can do it by yourself.”

It's not meant to be a jab at his ego, it's mean to be an actual offer for help. There's a brief moment where Simmons looks like he's considering it, but he quickly changes his mind, gently putting a hand over his wound. “It's fine. I got it.” It's rushed and dismissive, and when he goes into the bathroom he quickly closes the door and locks it.

While help would be preferred, Simmons isn't sure he can deal with Grif looking at his exposed chest. It seems trivial and stupid and he knows Grif will make a remark about him acting like a girl about it, but he's never really been comfortable with his own body, and of all people, he doesn't think he can deal with Grif staring at him.

Even with a bullet in his shoulder, some things are more important.

Pulling out the bullet hurts like a bitch and he's hissing in pain for most of the time, but when it comes out and he starts washing the wound he's lost in thought. Sure, when he was in basic, he was still nervous about people seeing him naked, or even just without his shirt on. There was something about Grif though. He couldn't let Grif see him that way, what if he made fun of him for being scrawny and pale?

Hell, it wasn't even about being made fun of. He'd been made fun of all his life and that was something he'd gotten used to. It's hard to explain, but Simmons decides he's more afraid of Grif not liking what he sees rather than the generic jabs and playful banter that he knows would be exchanged.

He thinks he knows why he cares so much, but he pretends like he doesn't.

Bandaging his shoulder up is a little tricky, but not unmanageable. The whole operation takes him maybe half an hour, and when he's done he's hesitant to put his armor back on. Realizing he forgot to bring in a spare shirt, he's got a few options: put the tight, bloody armor back on, ask Grif to snag a shirt, or go out and get a shirt himself.

He thinks about asking Grif to snag him a shirt, but quickly acknowledging that Grif will probably just tell him to grab it himself, he quietly slips out of the bathroom and hopes Grif elsewhere.

Grif's not waiting outside the bathroom, which is good, but when Simmons goes to get a shirt from his bunk Grif is waiting in his bunk.

“Holy shit dude, you actually did it.”

Simmons' first instinct is to try to cover himself with his arms, but his thin arms aren't enough to cover his broad-shouldered torso, and when Grif looks at him incredulously he lets his arms fall back to his sides.

Grif gets on his feet and stands face to face with Simmons, staring him up and down. He knows his cheeks are burning again but if Grif notices he doesn't say anything this time either. Instead, Grif gives him a reassuring grin. “You almost look like kind of a badass, Simmons.”

Sure enough, even with the bandages stretched across his shoulder and torso and the blood soaking through, Simmons still has his head held high and perfect posture like he doesn't feel a thing. “Y-You really think so?” The stammering betrays his confidence, but Grif chooses to ignore it.

“Yeah, definitely. Like a war hero. Man, wait until Sarge hears about this one!” Grif gives him a pat on the shoulder, his good shoulder, before walking past him. “I'm gonna go grab some oreos.”

“You pig! Just don't leave a fucking trail like last time!” The hearty laugh in response resonates from the hallway and Simmons rolls his eyes, moving to his bunk to grab the shirt he'd original come to retrieve.

The pain in his shoulder isn't too bad. Not when Grif smiles at him like that.


	4. Low Blow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif hasn't figured out where the boundaries are yet. Simmons teaches him.
> 
> The first punch breaks Grif’s nose.

The first punch breaks Grif's nose.

Simmons has the advantage; he was wearing his armor, only sans helmet when he started swinging, while Grif was lounging in his civvies. It was Grif's fault for not being suited up properly, and also Grif's fault for starting it. “Agh—Jesus, what the _fuck_ , Simmons?”

Simmons doesn't answer. He just grabs Grif by the collar of his shirt and gives him a solid shove, pinning him against the door to their shared room. “Shut your mouth, you fat prick!” For a moment Grif looks terrified, and Simmons isn't sure if it's because he didn't expect Simmons to suddenly attack him or because he's actually afraid of Simmons.

But the expression of fear quickly dissolves into anger, and Simmons is recoiling when Grif plants his fist right into his stomach, in the soft spot right underneath his chest plate. Simmons stumbles back and lowers his guard long enough for Grif to deck him in the face.

Simmons can hear the crack of his own nose, and he's pretty sure it's broken too.

He's initially startled that Grif can hit so hard, but when Grif takes another swing and Simmons barely manages to step out of the way, he realizes it's because Grif puts all of his weight behind every punch. A whole lot of weight. Clumsily, but hard enough to hurt like a bitch.

Grif turns, but before he can aim for Simmons again the redhead lands another blow to Grif's face, this time his right hook catching Grif's wide jaw. The large man visibly winces, then immediately tackles Simmons.

Simmons knows that if Grif pins him, he's not strong enough to force the larger man off, so when they slam to the floor Simmons ignores the pain and uses all of the momentum to roll them over, landing himself on top of Grif.

Grif squints for a moment, confused as to why he's suddenly on his back, and before he figures out that he's probably strong enough to kick Simmons off the other soldier begins showering him with punches. All Grif can do is hold up his arms and take the hits.

“Get the fuck off me, Simmons!”

“Take it back!”

“Wh—Dude, are you seriously mad about—?”

“I said _take it back_!” Simmons can't see Grif's face, but he can hear Grif laughing.

“Oh my god! If you're this pissed, your mom probably really is a drunk whore—“

Simmons stops his barrage long enough to grabs Grif's arms and pull them away. Then he throws one more punch, and he winces after he realizes he's probably just given Grif a black eye. Grif's not laughing anymore.

It's quiet for a long time. Both of them are breathing heavy and watching each other. Simmons hadn't realized until now there's blood dripping down his chin. Slowly, he slides himself off Grif and dabs at the blood. Grif sits up, rubbing his eye before standing up and retreating to his bunk.

Silently Simmons walks out, returning a few minutes later with the blood wiped from his face and tissues shoved up his nose, a box of tissues in one hand and a medkit in the other. He kneels by Grif's bunk and opens the medkit, but Grif takes it from him and waves him off. “I can do it myself.” They lock eyes for a moment, challenging each other, until Simmons gives up that battle and trudges back to his own bunk, sitting down and pulling in his lanky limbs until he's hugging his knees.

Simmons watches Grif for awhile. Grif apparently does know what he's doing with the medkit, and Simmons wonders if Grif got in fights during training camp, or before he got enlisted. Even though they've been here for so many months with each other, they still know hardly anything about each other's lives, and Simmons isn't sure if he wants to know more about Grif. Or vice versa.

Grif is the first to finally say something. “I won't say anything to Sarge if you won't.”

“Deal.” Grif gives him a bright smile and Simmons has to look away because his face is heating up for a number of reasons. “Grif, I...”

“Man, if you're going to apologize, don't bother. It's all done, alright?”

“...Alright.”

The rest of the night is uneventful, filled with the usual empty banter and light jabs at each other. Neither of them say anything more about their injuries or the fight until both of them are laying in their respective bunks and Grif is on the verge of sleep.

“She drinks a lot.”

It takes a moment to register, but when it does, Grif rolls onto his side and squints, trying to make out Simmons' figure in the dark. Simmons is laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Grif can't see his face.

“My dad used to live with us. She started drinking after he left.”

Simmons lets out a slow, shuddering breath before turning onto his side, away from Grif. Eventually Grif rolls over to mirror Simmons, and it's a long time before either of them falls asleep.


	5. Rookie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red Team gets a new squad member. He's a little too observant.

“I just refuse to call him Private Donut!”

Simmons rolls his eyes, unwilling to tear his attention away from cleaning his gun to humor Grif’s whining. “The rookie’s a little weird, but I mean, it’s good to have more support, isn’t it?”

“ _Support?_ Simmons, what do you think we are, an army fighting a war? All we do is sit around all day in the heat, shoving our faces full of crappy food and smoking!”

“No, all _you_ do is sit around all day, eating all of our rations and—shit man, I told you to stop smoking! Just because you haven’t done anything vaguely military related since basic doesn’t mean the rest of us are in as bad of shape as you are.”

“You’re fucking joking, right? All Sarge ever does is go back and forth from command to bring us the same dumb shitty orders, like, ‘do better,’ or, ‘try to win.’ The only time I’ve ever seen him fire a gun is when pretending to take shots at me, so don’t act like the old man is doing anything. You’re probably the only one here that’s done any actual work, and man, that’s your own fault.” It’s a jab at him, but at the same time Simmons can’t help but to smile a bit. Grif watches him and shakes his head. “Dude, you need to get your priorities in order.”

“Whatever man. All I’m saying is, it’s never bad to have more people.”

“He’s only been here a few days and he’s already getting on my nerves. This is going to be hell.”

“Sure he’s a chatterbox, but he’s not really—“

“Oh, heeeeey guys!” Simmons and Grif both immediately stop, their cheerful squad mate suddenly standing in the doorway.

“Jesus—don’t sneak up on us like that, rookie. And put some goddamn clothes on!” Grif crinkles his nose, slumping back on the ammo crate he’d propped himself up on. Though Grif had switched into his civvies hours ago (despite Simmons’ complaints), his at least consisted of sweats and a t-shirt.

Donut was sporting tight short-shorts along with a tank top that hugged his skin a _little_ too tightly for anyone in the room to really be comfortable with. “Psh, these are clothes! Do you know how hot it gets here? It’s crazy!”

“Yes, we know how hot it gets here, Donut. We’ve been here for months and you’ve been here for a few days. We’re a little more qualified to discuss the heat and clothing regulations than you are,” Simmons says with a frown of disapproval, being the only one still suited up in his armor. His helmet lays at his feet, but still, the heavy armor caused Simmons’ chair to creak in protest every time he readjusted himself in it. Shaking his head, Simmons returned his focus to polishing his gun. “Anyways. Did you need something, rookie?”

“Sarge wanted Grif to come outside. Something about helping him fix the sights on his gun.” Donut says it with a pleasant enough tone and smile that it almost sounds like good news, but Grif lets out a heavy sigh as he pushes himself off the large crate. The Hawaiian man grumbles something about Sarge _not being able to hit the broad side of a barn with that damn shotgun_ before giving a small wave to Simmons and departing.

Simmons gives him a small nod as he leaves before looking back to his gun. He goes over it one more time with a soft rag before finally sitting it down, grabbing his helmet as he stands to move and—“...Something the matter, rookie?”

Donut’s been staring at him since Grif left, a coy grin on his face that Simmons really doesn’t like the look of. Simmons raises a brow and looks at him expectantly until Donut giggles and finally speaks. “How long have you two known each other?”

“...A few months?” Simmons is perplexed by the question, blinking owlishly as Donut continues to giggle. “I don’t understand, what’s so funny?”

“You guys have good chemistry is all,” Donut responds, batting his eyelashes a bit before turning on his heel and walking out.

It takes a few minutes for Simmons to really register what Donut’s said, but by then it’s far too late to try to question him about it.

Simmons isn’t sure he knows what to ask or wants to know the answers anyway.


	6. Team Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif takes Simmons' advice. Sort of. 
> 
> Donut is pleased at, least.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Donut turns his head to glance over his shoulder at Grif, standing in the doorway. “Oh, heeeey Grif! Just my daily yoga routine!”

If Grif wasn’t busy being disgusted over the scented candles scattered across the room and the cheesy 80s synthpop playing from an old boombox, he might be impressed by the perfect split Donut was holding. “Can’t you do that in your own room instead of in the middle of the goddamn base? Other people want to use this room too!”

“There’s still plenty of room around me!”

“For the love of god, how am I supposed to relax with all this crap everywhere?”

“You should join me, Grif!” Donut smiles cheerily even as Grif crinkles his nose and makes a gagging motion. “If you want to relax, yoga can be very relaxing and soothing on the joints! It’s also a great method of exercise!”

Grif opens his mouth to protest, but suddenly pauses. “A great method of exercise, you say?”

 

 

 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Grif and Donut both glance over their shoulders to Simmons standing in the doorway, Donut giving him a happy hello and Grif with a typical shit-eating grin. “I’m _exercising_ , Simmons.”

Simmons stares blankly at Grif before raising a brow. “You’re just sitting there with your arms out like an idiot.”

“No Simmons, it’s _yoga_. I’m _working out_ , see? I’m being _productive_.” The sarcasm is so heavy that Simmons has to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. “You always told me I need to work out more, so here I am, doing exactly that. How can you bitch about me doing what you tell me to do?”

“That’s not--this isn’t, this doesn’t count as...whatever,” Simmons throws his hands in the air, walking around his two teammates on his way to his room. “At least Donut is actually putting some effort into it.”

Donut just laughs, holding his foot behind his neck in a display of dexterity that Simmons would admit was impressive if he wasn’t busy trying to walk dismissively out of the room. “It’s actually pretty easy when you practice! Come on Simmons, you should join us too!”

“Uh, no. I’m going to do some actual training and work, thank you very much.”

Grif snorts. “Why? Not like anyone’s gonna care whether you do or not.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t have to get done!”

“Doesn’t it though, Simmons? Doesn’t it?”

Simmons opens his mouth but doesn’t speak, unable to find the words to protest. Instead, he ponders over his options before heaving out a heavy sigh.

 

 

 

“What in Sam Hill is going on here?”

Grif, Simmons, and Donut all glance over their shoulders to Sarge standing in the doorway.

“We’re _exercising_ , Sarge.”

“This is, uh, an alternate workout regimen recommended by Command?”

“We’re team bonding! Wanna join us, Sarge?”

Sarge stands there for a long time, staring at his squad through his unreadable helmet, 80s synthpop blasting in the background. “Well shoot, let me just go grab my yoga pants and legwarmers.”

“Aw, heck yeah! I didn’t know you had legwarmers, Sarge--”

“I don’t! Now stop goofing around and get back to work! And pick up all these candles! They’re a fire hazard!”

Sarge storms out and Donut groans, uncontorting his body to stand and click off the boombox. Grif flops onto his back as Simmons also moves to stand, heaving out a groan. “Leave it to Sarge to ruin a good time.”

Simmons grins at Grif. “So, you were having a good time doing fucking yoga with us?”

“That’s not what I--shut the fuck up, Simmons,” the Hawaiian grumbles, throwing an arm over his face.

“Whatever man, just be careful how loud you say it, or _some people_ might want to make this a routine.”

Donut just whistles happily in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after 2 years of not updating this, I've finally decided to come back to it and see where I can take it. This has always been one of my favorite pieces of writing I've done and I've always regretted not finishing it or really going anywhere with it, so...let's see what I can do.
> 
> This is just a really quick fluff bit to kind of revive it and get myself back in the headspace for writing this, but the next chapter should be more Grimmons focused
> 
> Edit: Corrected the grammar in this chapter to be consistent with the other chapters, along with some formatting errors.


	7. Love Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many simple gestures are love letters if you look hard enough.

“What is that? A love letter?”

Simmons jumps in surprise, a hand flying to where his gun usually is before he remembers he’s in civvies and realizes who it is. “Goddamnit, you know I hate it when you do that!”

Donut laughs, not apologetically at all, and gives Simmons a pat on the shoulder. “Sorry! They always said I move quietly and swiftly, like lioness stalking its prey!”

“Don’t you mean a...no, no you don’t.” Simmons shakes his head and turns his attention back to the paper in his hands.

“So is it?”

“Is what _what_?”

“Is it a love letter?”

Simmons lets out a noise of disgust. “Dear god, no. It’s a...well, I don’t actually know. Grif wrote it and left it on my bed, but I can’t make out what it says. His penmanship is as sloppy as everything else he does.”

Donut leans over to peer at the paper, Simmons leaning away to not have his personal space intruded. “Hmmmmmmmmm...no, that’s _definitely_ a love letter.”

“If this is a love letter, I’m gonna barf.”

“Trust me Simmons, I’ve read and written _lots_ of love letters, I know one when I see one!”

Simmons is about to protest as Grif walks in. “What are you two gossiping about--holy shit, Simmons, don’t just wave that around!”

In an instant Grif is in front of him, grabbing Simmons’ hands and shoving them to the lanky man’s chest to conceal the paper. Simmons feels a burning in his cheeks (why the fuck is Grif _holding his hands_ right now?) as Grif verbally shoos Donut away. Donut is giggling as he leaves the room, and Simmons really wishes he could hide his face as Grif turns back to look at him.

“Come on Simmons, don’t just talk about a man’s private business like that.”

“Grif…” Simmons can feel his throat going dry, his hands shaking in Grif’s. “I…are you…?”

“If you’re going to ask if I’m serious, of course I am. I’m dead serious, Simmons.”

Grif looks him straight in the eyes, and for a moment, the world stops. Simmons thinks his heart is going to give out.

“I want every single thing on that grocery list when you and Sarge go to Command. I don’t want off-brand Oreos, I want the real deal, and I’m not exaggerating how many bags of marshmallows I want either.”

 

 

 

“I don’t understand what he’s so pissed off about.”

Grif rubs at the bruise on his cheek, pouting as Donut leans against the kitchen counter.

“Maybe he wants you to write him a love letter?”

“Shut up, Donut.”

 

 

 

Grif wakes up several days later to a package of Oreos landing on his chest. “What the fu…oh! Holy shit, you actually did it!”

Simmons takes off his helmet and makes sure that Grif can see his exaggerated eye roll. “Everything else is in the kitchen. Just don’t get shit all over the floor again, you pig.”

The ginger is quick to remove his armor and slump onto his bed as Grif tears open the plastic packaging and proceeds to start stuffing his face, despite having been sound asleep only moments ago. When he’s done eating a whole row of cookies, he turns to Simmons and opens his mouth to say something.

Simmons is already sound asleep.

 

 

 

There’s a note on his nightstand when he wakes up. The penmanship is still sloppy, but there’s a clear effort to make the words legible.

_'thanks, dick'_

Simmons realizes there’s two ways to read it and isn’t sure which is correct, but is honestly just as fond of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry the updating on this is so sporadic. I've had a lot going on in my life but I'm doing a bit better now so hopefully I can see to this more. I really do want to take it places!
> 
> Thank you all so much for you kudos and kind reviews. Your encouragement really helps me want to get back to writing every time I see it :)


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